I'm Only Sleeping
by sette908
Summary: In early 2010, Enjolras was proud to say he had his life entirely together- yet if previous experience was anything to go by; the perfection could not last long; and five years can change your life in a second. [Enjolras has a car accident and ends up in a coma for five years. When he wakes up the other side, the world is an entirely different place to the one he left behind.]
1. Awakening

**A/N: First attempt at an Amis modern AU, so please be nice. Also, Les Mis doesn't belong to me.**

_**Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, 2015**_

"Enjolras? En? You said he was waking up."

"He has shown signs, _Mademoiselle _Enjolras- movement behind the eyelids, some flickering, detections of higher mental awareness than we have seen in him the past five years."

"But- we rushed over here especially." He knew that voice; loved that voice.

"I'm sorry. It could be some time. He wasn't going to open his eyes immediately, say hello, demand some breakfast." The man's aristocratic accent had the stuffy, authoritative tone one might associate with doctors, lawyers, government officials. It irritated him to hear it. Why should he speak in such a patronising way to the girl- who clearly meant so much to him, the way her voice rang and chimed alarm bells of recognition and importance in his mind, if he could just remember why.

"There's no need for that." A third voice, another man, soft, calm, but firm. Perfectly eloquent and, again, recognisable. He just wanted to open his eyes and _see_ them, to put faces to the voices he knew…

"I can call you when- _if- _he wakes up, if that would be preferable."

"I think we'll sit here for a bit, if you don't mind." The girl replied. "I like to spend time with him- even when he's sleeping."

He could almost see her in his mind's eye, the picture just a little too blurry and jaded to fully make out her identity- he knew the voice _so well. _Little jolts of memory went off like a chain of dominoes in his head; a tinkling laugh, a head of golden curls, a crinkled smile. Suddenly, he wanted to see her so badly, his chest ached. His eyes felt trapped though, as though the lids were sewn shut. They weren't heavy, just stuck together somehow.

He felt cool, slender fingers take hold of his hand. He had been so caught up in his mind, in the voices that had so recently appeared, that he had forgotten about the rest of his body. He supposed it was still there; he just hadn't felt it for so long- now there was a hand holding his own, and the realisation that his nerves weren't completely numb. Not anymore.

He wriggled his toes experimentally, and felt something warm and crinkly, like a bedsheet, rustling with his movement.

"He just moved!" The female voice exclaimed, her grip on his hand tightening. "I- I think- can you hear me, Enjolras, can you hear me?!"

_Yes! Yes, I can hear you. _

"Enjolras? Enjolras, brother. Are you there? Can you hear us?"

_I know your voice. I can hear you. I can't see you. I can't talk, not right now. _

He tried to open his eyes, but they were still stuck, as though they had been glued that way. He wriggled his toes again, in way of response.

"You saw that, right, Jean?"

_Jean? _

"He certainly moved." How could such a familiar voice belong to a name he had no recollection of? Was he losing his memory?

In reckless hope, Enjolras attempted to move his fingers, to tighten his grip on the hand in his own. It must have worked, for the female gave a sharp intake of breath.

"You can hear me- you are there, aren't you, Enjolras? _Médecin-_ I think he's trying to wake up." So he was in hospital then. What had happened? Had something gone wrong with his eyes?

His lips tingled, his tongue felt warm and listless in his mouth. He tried to move them, but was unsure if anything happened.

"_Mes yeux_," He tried experimentally, voice croaky and breathless. A doctor must have arrived, someone was pressing fingers to his wrist, and hooking him up to some kind of machine.

"He was moving- and he just spoke- he's definitely trying to wake up."

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras? Can you hear me? _Monsieur_?"

"_Oui."_

Frantic and excitable discussion ensued, as Enjolras' brain worked overtime. So many voices- there must be at least five people in the room, if only he could open his eyes and see. What if he was blind?

_"__Mes yeux," _He said again, louder and more desperately this time. Life seemed to be spreading from his lips, tingling all over his face. His eyes felt lighter, even more weightless than before. They began to flicker.

Brightness. Everything was white, so bright, so colourful, that after a millisecond of seeing he had to press them tightly shut again.

"The light- it's very bright," He said.

"Enjolras! _Mon frère!" _The girl cried, as other voices discussed hurriedly in the background- "Turn the lights out, and draw the curtains- get the brain activity monitor…"

_Frère. _Brother.

"Enjolras?" Came the man's voice again, the one he recognised. Jean.

"Sylvie? Sylvie, is that you? What's happening?" Enjolras blinked. The room was darker now, though still unbearably colourful, and so much movement- so different to the darkness he had become so accustomed to.

_"__Oui! Oui, mon frère, c'est moi!" _Sylvie exclaimed excitedly. His little sister, Sylvie, with her bright laugh and sky-blue eyes and gold hair so like his own. He knew that voice. His eyes were open fully now, it was blurry, but he could see. He knew that face.

Sylvie leaned forward and kissed him passionately on either cheek. "It's been so long." She said, voice thick with emotion.

"Sylvie- what's happening? Where am I?" Enjolras demanded, trying to prop himself up in bed, only to be pounced on by two overbearing doctors. "Why am I here?"

"Don't answer him." One of the doctors said immediately.

"The time for questions is later, _Monsieur."_ Another said. "I think you two should leave, for now, so we can get him settled, accustomed-"

"I don't want to!" Sylvie whined.

"Sylvie- if the doctors say it's best, they probably do know." Calm but firm, Jean again. Enjolras had almost forgotten about him. With some effort, he turned his neck so he was facing the direction of the familiar voice. A slender man sat the other side of the bed to his sister, tall and reasonably pale, with a smattering of freckles, and long red hair. It was shorter, however, than he remembered it- messy and shoulder-length, as opposed to a long red plait down his back.

_"__JEHAN?" _Enjolras asked incredulously, eyebrows flying up his forehead. "_Mon ami!" _He had forgotten, Jehan, his real name was Jean. Jean Prouvaire.

"_Oui, _Enjolras, my friend. It's Jehan."

"His memory seems to be in perfect order," One of the doctors was saying.

"You two really should leave now," Said another. Sylvie looked distraught, but squeezed his hand and promised she'd be back tomorrow. As she left, Enjolras noticed her taking Jehan's hand. Something felt wrong about that, though he couldn't figure out why. "I can't wait to tell all the others- can we call them now?" She was gushing. Of course, the others. His friends. But he had only seen them all yesterday, surely? Though, perhaps he had been out for rather a long time. He couldn't quite remember why he was here at all.

"Get. My. Sister. Back." Enjolras snarled at the snarky male doctor, his fingers gripped around the other man's wrist. He looked slightly fearful. Good.

Within the twelve hours he had been awake, the authoritative Doctor man had become the bane of Enjolras' existence. He wore glasses, perched on the edge of his nose, and had lips that seemed to be constantly pursed. Not to mention, he was a giant fuckbag.

"Visiting hours are over, _Monsieur. _Now, would you like to read something? Your sister tells me you were very literary before the accident-"

"Listen, _pal." _Enjolras spat venomously. "I just found out it's 2020 and I've woken up after a five-year nap. Get me my sister." He narrowed his eyes for effect.

The doctor caved.

Within half an hour, Sylvie had arrived, this time alone. Enjolras tried not to be upset. He had hoped his sister may bring along Jehan or another of his friends; he so longed to see them- especially now he knew how long it had been since they last spoke. Would they have changed; what would be happening in their lives? Would he recognise them at all?

"_Bonjour, _Enjolras," His sister greeted him brightly, settling down on the chair next to his bed. Studying her carefully, he noticed some changes- her curly blonde hair was longer than he remembered, her face more gaunt-looking. She had lost weight. He hoped it wasn't from worrying. "I heard you found out about the whole 'five-years-out-of-action' thing, so I bought you today's paper." She handed him the newspaper with a smile, and he thanked her. Looking at the date, however- glaring out at him from under the newspaper name- made him feel sick to the stomach. It sat there, in thick black ink, mocking him. _You've missed five years of your life. _

The headline read, _"RIOTS IN PARIS AFTER FOUR POLICEMEN TAKEN HOSTAGE BY TERRORISTS". _

Enjolras sighed. Five years, and his country was still a mess of conflicting opinions and violence. Oh, France.

"I'll read it some other time," He said, placing it on the table next to his bed. He reached out and took his sister's hands in his own. "Please, Sylvie, tell me about you. About our friends. About our life. Has anything happened?"

Sylvie's eyes glassed over, and she looked to her shoes, squeezing his fingers with her own.

"So much has happened." She stated simply. "So many things- I needed you so _badly, _En."

"Tell me, Sylvie. _Sil vous plaît." _

"Oh, Enjolras," She cried, her eyes watering now, and a single tear rolling down her right cheek. "It's papa. He died last year."

Enjolras felt a winded sensation, as though a bullet had struck him in the stomach. Instinctively, he reached up and clasped a hand to his chest, breathing heavily. He ran it through his hair, before taking his sister's hand again, and staring earnestly into her eyes. "When? How?"

Sylvie was crying now. "Just after christmas. He got sick. Really ill."

"_Oh, _Sylvie." His sister collapsed into his arms, and he rubbed her back and stroked her hair comfortingly. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"I didn't know what to do," She sobbed, clutching him tightly. "I came to talk to you, and held your hand and told you all about it and how much I needed you there and how hard the funeral was, and how much he wanted to say goodbye to you. You have no idea how much I wanted you to wake up, in the final days of his life- it was his dying wish to hear your voice again."

Enjolras too was crying now, his father's face in his mind. His father who had been his role model as a child, and his best friend as an adult. His advisor, his assistant, his mentor, his friend. His father who had held him, a nineteen-year-old boy, as he cried at his mother's death. His father who had always been there no matter what. Now gone.

"I can't get my head around all this, Syl." Enjolras confessed, once his sister had composed himself, and the few tears he had shed had dried on his face. "I've missed so much. So much has changed. I feel like a stranger to this world."

"We can change that," She said, with some determination, clasping his hands. "We'll get you all caught up, don't you worry about that. You've got some visitors coming this afternoon, by the way!"

"Visitors?" Enjolras' eyes widened. "Seriously? Sylvie- I don't think I'm ready-" While the idea of seeing people he knew after so long terrified him, it also ignited a spark of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps she had contacted Combeferre. He was so desperate to see his best friend again. Or maybe Courf, and he would bring Jehan along. Courfeyrac was dating Jehan, he remembered that now. He remembered almost everything, about every single one of his friends. He could see their faces in his mind.

"Who is it? Who's coming?" He asked curiously.

He wondered if his closest friends would have changed much. How would they have got on without him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac?

His sister just smirked and raised her eyebrows. "I'll see you tomorrow. You can tell me how it goes this afternoon." She kissed him on both cheeks and waltzed out of the room, leaving Enjolras to entertain himself until the arrival of his mystery guests.

_Pontmercy? _

He was a nice guy and all, but on what fucking planet is it a good idea to expose a guy who has just been in a five-year coma to a guy like _Pontmercy? _

It was Cosette who came in the door first, looking beautiful as ever. She hadn't changed much- perhaps become a little softer around the edges- but she still had that day-brightening smile, the deep blue eyes that Marius had fallen sickeningly in love with. Her hair was pinned in a practical bun on her head, and she looked tired.

It soon became apparent why. In one hand, she carried a bouquet of flowers- the ones wrapped in cellophane you get from the supermarket. The other arm had a baby carrier slung over it, a small child of only a few months sleeping inside. So, _Monsieur _and _Mademoiselle_ Pontmercy had been busy since the wedding.

Marius followed, a rambunctious male toddler of around three perched on his shoulders, tugging at his father's hair. A girl who didn't look much older was dangling off her father's arm, and a final child of one or two was propped up on the tall man's hip. Marius was grinning at his children, in a rather pained, long-suffering manner.

_Merde. _Marius and Cosette had been going at it more than he had thought.

"Enjolras!" Cosette exclaimed. She carefully placed the baby carrier on the floor and rushed towards his bed, kissing him on both cheeks and thrusting the flowers into his hands. "It's been so long- we've missed you so much!"

"Mama?" The girl child piped up, tugging on her mother's skirt. "Is that a man or a woman?" Enjolras raised his eyebrows, and Cosette laughed awkwardly.

"A man, _chéri." _

"But his hair is longer than yours!"

"Well, they haven't cut it for a while, he's been sleeping so long." Cosette said quickly. She crossed the room to gather up the younger boy from his father's arms.

"_Mon dieu, _Marius, where is Henri's coat?"

"Sorry, darling, I must have left it in the car- I was too busy trying to-"

"-Find the entrance to the hospital? Take your seatbelt off? Remember to breathe?!" Cosette finished for him with exasperation, and Marius just ran a hand through his hair, ignoring his wife. He knew he was a scatter brain. His head was too full of other things.

"Well, if he catches a cold now, it's your fault." She added, plonking her young son onto the chair next to the bed. The older-looking boy, having clambered down from his father's shoulders, was now crawling over Enjolras' bed, moving up until he had sat on the man's stomach. Enjolras frowned.

"_Salut, Monsieur!" _He gurgled happily.

"_Salut, _young unidentified Pontmercy child." Enjolras replied shortly. "Would you mind-"

"Jean!" Cosette exclaimed, grabbing the boy under the arms and scooping him off the bed. "I'm so sorry- was he hurting you? He's big for his age. _ISABELLE- _stop poking the baby!"

"Uh, sorry about this," Marius said a little awkwardly, approaching the bed. "The children are a little raucous."

"You don't say," Enjolras replied, peeling Henri- or was it Jean- away from his hair. They were all little Pontmercy's, through and through- with faces cluttered with freckles and tall, gangly limbs. With the exception of the fabulous head of golden hair one of the boys had, each child also had Marius' mousy locks, and, apparently, his ability to be incredibly irritating at the worst possible time.

"Now, what have you brought for _Monsieur _Enjolras, Isabelle?" Cosette was saying, obviously trying to promote her children being polite and well-mannered little people like herself.

Isabelle flushed up to her ears. "Um- I- I made this for you." She reached into the pocket of her coat, fumbling around awkwardly.

"You don't have to wear it," Pontmercy whispered.

Isabelle produced a knobbly red scarf. It wasn't particularly long, and varied in width all the way down it, as though stitches had been dropped and then picked up again. The knitting was uneven and the colour of red altered slightly halfway down- like one colour wool had ran out and the next one had been slightly different.

"Mama taught me to knit," She said, thrusting it into his arms and hurrying shyly away.

"It's wonderful!" Enjolras said, trying not to sound too fake as he wrapped the scarf around his neck. He had never been good with children, but he had to try, for Pontmercy- he had made the effort to come and visit him, after all.

The scarf was suffocating in the stifling room and itchy against his bare neck.

"I love it," He said, practically through gritted teeth. It was worth it for the way the little girl beamed.

By the time Marius, Cosette and their brood had finally gone, Enjolras was stifling, itchy, exasperated and exhausted. He yanked the scarf away from his neck hastily, but placed it carefully on the bedside table none the less. He closed his eyes gently and led back into his pillow, relishing the silence of the now again empty hotel room.

When he woke up, it was to find that almost three hours had passed, and night had fallen. There was a nurse in the room, pulling the curtains shut and checking up on all the machines that were still measuring his heart rate and brain activity and other things. "Good nap, _Monsieur?" _She asked sweetly, approaching the bed to fluff his pillows up behind him. "Would you like a tray of food brought up?" She was pretty, with reddish hair that was pulled up tightly, and blue eyes that almost matched the colour of her scrubs. They reminded him of someone- the way they sparkled so brilliantly, so akin to the exact colour of the sky. Mesmerising blue eyes like these lingered somewhere in the recesses of his memory; he tried to reach back and bring them forward, connect them to a face, but it was all too foggy.

"Yes please," Enjolras replied. "And something to read. I finished this paper."

She nodded understandingly, and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. In the dim light provided by the lamp in the corner, Enjolras could see that she had put Cosette's flowers in a vase with water on the windowsill. They were white irises.

He stretched, extending his arms above his head in a lazy, cat-like manner. Reaching back, he grabbed his thick blonde hair in his hand and ran his fingers down it to the ends. It had gotten long, and felt knotty and dry.

He heaved himself up out of the bed, taking a few moments to steady himself on wobbly feet. It was as though he had been on a lengthly sea voyage, the way his head spun and legs quivered weakly. It took at least a minute more to slowly manoeuvre his way towards the hospital room's ensuite bathroom, steading himself on the bed and then the wall. What the hell was up with him? Does a five year coma really render you this immobile?

The shower room was as hospital-esque as he had expected- very white and clean, with red emergency cords next to the toilet and in the shower, and bars and a plastic disabled seat in the shower. There were a number of small bottles of toiletries lined up on a shelf inside the cubicle, like one might find in hotels.

Enjolras undressed quickly- as he peeled the hospital gown over his head in one swift movement, he began to contemplate the practicality of dresses. So that's why Cosette wore them all the time. So much faster than buttoning shirts, buckling belts, tying ties and fastening cufflinks- yet both forms of attire were considered equally formal. Perhaps he should bring this up at the next Amis meeting. Inequality in clothing.

It took him some time to work out how to adjust the temperature and pressure of the shower, but soon had it going to his liking. He stood under the hot running water, feeling it relax his muscles and bring new life to limbs that had been so long out of action. After a while, his legs began to ache, and he felt embarrassed when he had to sit down on the plastic seat in order to shower comfortably. Living like a pathetic invalid, at the meagre age of twenty-nine.

He shampooed and conditioned thoroughly, before stepping out and methodically rubbing a towel through his long hair, dark brown from the water. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood in front of the mirror, assessing his reflection.

He had lost a lot of weight, in his coma. He supposed the drips they fed you on when you were too unconscious to eat yourself must provide the basic nutrition needed for survival, but contain few fats or sugars or anything that could cause excessive weight gain. It wasn't the same- liquid food. Compared to how he had eaten before- a life full of the finest French cuisine. He would stop by at that nice café down the road from his flat on the way to work and get a coffee and croissant to go, and lunch would usually be baguette with something- meat, cheese, fruit- and more coffee. There were always nice restaurants, nice things to eat, when it came to dinner- or something simple at home, he wasn't a bad cook himself.

He hadn't realised how much he had missed food, until he remembered it now. His stomach rumbled at the thought. The hospital food wasn't quite as satisfying as it could be.

His hair really was too long. He dried it a bit using the hairdryer attached to the wall (nearly jumping out of his skin when he finally worked out how to turn it on) before grabbing a tiny pair of nail scissors from the cupboard above the sink. Just a trim, for now, before he could get it done professionally.

He left the top how it was- there was no use trying to cut the hairs around his face himself- instead shearing the excess length at the bottom of the hair off in as straight a line as he could. When it was about chin length, albeit slightly jaggedy, he set the scissors down, satisfied. He ran a hand through it, pushing it back. That felt better.

He unlocked the door to the ensuite and stepped back out into the main room, just as the door opened and the young nurse stepped inside.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him- crap, he was only wearing a towel- and she almost dropped the tray she was carrying. _"Monsieur, _you're not supposed to be up!" She said frantically, obviously trying to ignore the flush creeping up her cheeks. Enjolras could feel his own face reddening. "You're meant to still be resting- please, get back into bed, _Merde- _erm, _excusez-moi-" _

_"_Sincerest apologies, _Mademoiselle. _I just needed to wash. I felt so dirty, and my hair so long."

"I understand. Still, I will have to report that you have over-exerted yourself physically today… please, get back into bed, I've brought food for you."

When he had pulled another hospital gown own, the embarrassed nurse immersing herself in straightening the picture on the far wall as he did so, and got back into bed, she brought him over the plastic tray. Propping him up on the pillows behind him, she smiled and asked if he wanted anything else.

"No, this is fine, _Merci._"

He looked glumly down at the bowl of soup. They had provided a chunk of baguette and some of those little packages of butter you get in hotels, but it was quite stale and nothing like the bread of Enjolras' daydreams. Hot, fresh from the B_oulangerie…_

When he finished eating, he tried to distract himself from his own thoughts with the magazine the nurse had bought, but it was boring and had nothing of any worth inside. The hospital, he decided, was like a hotel- with mini shampoo and mini butter and room service. Just like a hotel, with the same feeling of imprisonment, just you didn't have to pay for it. Enjolras had never liked hotels.

**Hope you liked it- please leave a review if you did! I hope to upload pretty often, but I'm quite busy most of the time with work and school etc so it all depends on what's going on for me! **


	2. The Five-Year Gap

**Disclaimer: Les Mis and its characters belongs to Victor Hugo. **

The next day was Saturday, which Enjolras found out when the pretty nurse arrived in the morning and brought him porridge and watery coffee along with the day's _Libération. _She smiles shyly at him and yanks the curtains open, sunlight streaming through the room. "_Bon matin, _Enjolras. How are you feeling today?"

"Very well, thank you, Adele." He smiled. He had learnt her name yesterday, and he enjoyed the way it made her flush under her pretty freckles, hearing him say it. He supposed her presence, and her obvious good looks, should excite him more than they did.

A couple of hours passed, in which Enjolras read about the sorry state of modern-day Paris, and listened to music on the crackly radio beside the bed. He ran the red scarf idly through his fingers, admired the flowers in the window, and even stood up to take a few experimental steps. He was just settling himself back under the sheets when the door burst open, and Sylvie rushed in.

"Enjolras, how are you?" She greeted him enthusiastically. "I brought you something."

Enjolras could have kissed her as she handed over the polystyrene coffee cup and the paper bag bearing the trademark stripes of his favourite bakery. Inside, a _pain au raisin, _and a perfectly creamy latte in the cup.

"I've been dreaming about good food. I genuinely cannot thank you enough." Enjolras said in all seriousness, reaching forward to kiss her cheek. She pulled up a chair right next to his bed, and busied herself flicking through the first few pages of _Libération. _"Jehan's just coming," She said idly, her eyes glancing over the pages of the newspaper. "I have a lunch date in an hour, but Jean Prouvaire is going to stay with you for a bit. Talk about your friends, that kind of thing."

"Have you contacted any of them? I would very much like to see Combeferre; Courfeyrac-"

His sister visibly stiffened. "I only had contact details for Marius. I asked him to inform the others. Jean has been too busy at work to do so."

Enjolras sighed. Like Marius was going to remember to contact all of their friends and let them know Enjolras was awake. He probably couldn't even remember how many children he had.

The door opened again and Jehan rushed in. Enjolras found himself beaming at the sight. Jehan brought with him a breath of fresh air, a glimpse of his old life. It was the only thing keeping him going through the bleak period in the hospital- the idea that he could, at the end of it all, return to his old life.

Though it wouldn't be exactly the same. His papa was gone now. He had been forcing himself not to dwell on it, but when he began to think of it, it was hard to forget. He tried to inject happiness into his voice when he replied to Jehan's _'Bonjour!'_, though he feared it wasn't quite subtle enough.

"How do you feel? Have you walked around at all yet?"

"Yeah, I actually got out of bed and had a shower yesterday. I didn't realise I was meant to be on specific bed rest. The nurse got a little antsy with me."

"Enjolras!" Sylvie reprimanded him, while Jehan laughed. "You shouldn't be impeding your recovery."

"I'm not!" Enjolras said defensively. "I was _seriously _dirty, and my hair was a mess. You could have plaited it, Jehan, I'm serious. I had to hack it off with the nail scissors."

Jehan's eyes widened. "_You _cut your hair with nail scissors? You, mr 'finest-salon-in-town-only'? This coma has changed you."

"Five years does a lot to a man." Enjolras began seriously. "Especially when you sleep through it all."

Jehan laughed again, and Sylvie smiled before flicking her gaze to the watch on her wrist. "I've got to get going if I'm going to make it to the restaurant in time- it's about three metro changes from here." She told the room at large, rolling her eyes. "I'll come by after work on Monday, okay? Hopefully they'll be talking about releasing you by then." She leant over and kissed him on the cheek, gathering her bags. "See you later," She added to Jehan, and then, to Enjolras' surprise, kissed him full on the mouth.

Jehan wasn't surprised by Sylvie's erratic behaviour, and reciprocated gently before smiling at her and watching her leave. Enjolras gave his friend a meaningful stare, eyebrows raised high up his forehead.

"Oh, my god, you don't know." Realisation dawned on Jehan like a tonne of bricks. "Your sister and I, have, er- for nearly six months now-"

"Courfeyrac?" Enjolras stuttered.

"Oh, lord, Enjolras- we broke up over a year ago."

"What?!" It was impossible to comprehend. He had never, in his life, seen a couple better suited than Jehan and Courf. He had never seen two people act so ridiculously, sickeningly in love before either. Understandably, it was difficult for him to get his head around the idea that such a love could be broken. "He must be absolutely torn up, jesus, Jehan, he was besotted with you."

Jehan's discomfort was visible. "It was a mutual decision- it just, really wasn't working anymore. I know I owe you an explanation, Enjolras, but I really don't like to talk about it."

"Look. Not now, not here, I get it. Some other time, you'll have to tell me what went down, because I can't believe for a second that there's anything powerful enough to break up you guys- at least, the way you acted before I had my accident, that is. For now, I really need to talk to Courf. Does he even know I'm awake?"

Jehan was standing up now, and pacing anxiously. He peered out of the window uncomfortably, idly fiddling with the buttons on his jacket.

"Erm… I don't really know how to say this…."

"_Jehan."_

_"_Courfeyrac, is, er, in Australia."

"What do you mean, Courfeyrac's in Australia?"

"Exactly how it sounds," Jehan replied awkwardly, running a hand through his hair.

"How long?"

"Three months or so. It was a really good job offer."

"He just _left _me?"

"In all fairness, Enjolras, you had been asleep for four years and nine months."

Enjolras glared at him. "Not now, _Jean Prouvaire." _He said, mocking his sister's name for Jehan. "My best friend is thousands of miles away. He doesn't even know that I'm no longer unconscious for an indefinite period. Do you have Courfeyrac's number?"

Jehan's eyes widened, and he blushed slightly. "Yes- but, I haven't used it for a long time- it might not be right-"

"Let me borrow your phone." Enjolras replied firmly.

"No! You can't call Courfeyrac on my phone!" Jehan said, clutching his pocket protectively.

"Give it to me," Enjolras said warningly, eyes narrowed. "_Jehan." _

_"_You can't make me!"

"Surely there is some unspoken rule that you give your hospitalised and bedridden best friend anything they want?" Enjolras countered, eyebrows raised.

Jehan stared guiltily at Enjolras for a few moments.

"Please," Enjolras continued, voice softening. "I just want to talk to him. He's my best friend. He doesn't even know I'm alive."

Jehan rolled his eyes, but handed his phone over anyway. "I'm going to get coffee. You're paying for the long distance call," He added warningly, and closed the ward door behind him.

Enjolras located Courfeyrac's number immediately and pressed dial. It would be about midnight over in Australia- he just hoped Courf would have his phone on loud. Or he might still be awake. Or, that it was his number at all.

It rang for a long time, Enjolras fiddling with the duvet anxiously in his other hand. He was about to pull it away from his ear and hang up when the ringing stopped and a groggy voice answered.

"Jehan?! Jehan, it's Courf, why are you calling? Is everything alright? Are you okay?" Courfeyrac went from 'woken-from-sleep' mode to 'excitable-the-love-of-my-life-needs-me' mode in the course of a sentence, and it pained Enjolras to hear it. He hoped his friend wouldn't be too disappointed to hear it wasn't Jehan at all.

"Courfeyrac, it's not Jehan. It's me, Enjolras."

The end of the line silenced for a few moments, Courfeyrac's unsteady breathing heavy in Enjolras' ear.

"I'm asleep, aren't I." Courfeyrac said glumly. "I need to stop taking those pills before bed, they give me totally wackjob dreams-"

"Courf, this isn't a dream, I'm serious, it's me. I woke up a few days ago. I'm- well, I'm back."

"Enjolras? For real?"

"For real."

"OH MY GOD!" Courfeyrac squealed. "You're awake! For a few days, too! Why didn't any of the fuckers think to tell me? You know, you go to Australia, you suddenly feel so out of the loop…" Enjolras chuckled lightly.

"I don't think any of the others know. My sister could only get hold of Marius, and he's probably lost his phone or something."

Courfeyrac laughed. There were a few moments of comfortable silence, and Enjolras could feel Courfeyrac's pure elation almost down the line. He had never felt so loved in his life- to see his friend so moved by his mere voice, his simple presence.

"I can't believe it," Courfeyrac breathed again.

"Come back to Paris. Come and see me," Enjolras begged his friend. "I need to see you, Courf."

There was a minute's silence. "Enjolras, I- I can't." He said finally, on a sigh.

Enjolras frowned. "What do you mean, you can't? Come back! It's not like you even wanted to go in the first place- it was just a way of escaping Jehan, right?"

"No, I really did want to come. It's a great job offer. Although," The smile in Courf's voice was visible in his mind's eye. "There is no intersection between 'gay men' and 'attractive men' over here in Australia. There is no crossing over Venn diagram. Just two very lonely, very separate circles of people. Well, except for me, of course. I'm the only man in this whole fucking land mass who fits in both categories."

Enjolras laughed. "I'm not going to get on at you now, Jehan will kill me for the money this will cost. Sorry if I excited you at the prospect of Jehan calling-"

"Are you kidding, Enjolras? This is more than I could ever hope for."

Enjolras blinked back the tears threatening his eyes as he beamed. "Look, I'm not going to talk about Jehan right now, or try and persuade you to return. But expect a call the moment I get a phone, and your number. Expect a lot of calls."

Courfeyrac laughed. "That I shall, _mon ami."_

"Goodbye, Courfeyrac."

"_Au revoir, _Enjolras."

Jehan left not long after that, mumbling irritably to himself about long-distance calls and their cost. Enjolras suspected that half of Jehan's bad temper had come from all the talk and mention of Courfeyrac, and decided to just leave his friend be, so with another (and relatively insincere) promise to pay the phone bill, Enjolras bid him farewell.

It was these times that were the worst. With no-one to talk to, the bed suddenly became far more restricting than it felt when there were loved ones on either side of it. He was allowed to walk around his room now, but he was not allowed to be on his feet for over thirty minutes at a time, and nothing too strenuous was allowed. He whiled the hours away pacing in front of his window, watching the city go by beneath him and listening to the radio droning on in the background. When his legs began to ache, he would lie back in bed for a while, reading or watching the television. He wished he had his laptop with him- so he could work on speeches and the articles he submitted for the newspaper sometimes, all about his cause. His laptop was probably outdated now- he wondered where it was; it had a lot of work on it.

He was just planning to call for the nurse and ask to get his sister on the phone so he could demand the location of his laptop, when the woman herself arrived in the room. Today she had carefully french braided her hair, and the long thin braid hung prettily down her back, with some loose strands falling in her eyes.

"Afternoon, Enjolras," She said sweetly, replacing his water jug and handing him his 'afternoon tea' tray. The hospital meals generally consisted of four trays a day, unless you requested extra. The morning meal was either a soggy croissant or watery porridge, with strong black coffee. Lunch was your choice of sandwich or a sad-looking hot meal usually consisting of something mushy served with peas. More often than not, it was the same as the previous day's dinner.

Around four, a tray was brought with a cup of coffee and a slice of plain spiced cake. It wasn't the best, but it had flavour and was a genuinely nice cake, so Enjolras found this went down easiest. It was satisfying enough that when his bleak dinner was brought at seven, he didn't feel too down or hard done by. He still patiently anticipated his sister's visits, however, or anyone who might bring him something else to eat. His mind was currently settled dreamily on the fresh-baked baguette sandwiches stuffed with brie and salad that had been the staple diet of his childhood vacations in Normandy.

"You have a visitor. He's just on his way up now; he had to fill out a couple of forms." She watered the irises carefully, plumped up his pillows and flittered about straightening the pile of magazines and newspapers on his bedside table.

"Who is-" Enjolras began, when someone rapped twice on the door of the private ward.

"Can I come in?" Asked a male voice, clear and melodic. Enjolras felt recognition rush through him, filling his whole body with warmth and an overwhelming affection. A grin spread involuntarily over his face, and the door opened.

"Combeferre!"


	3. Old Friends

Enjolras breathed a lengthly sigh of relief. Finally, somebody so familiar and constant in his life, to bring him back to reality. Combeferre is the _symbol _of his old life, his very essence is so quintessentially five years ago, that when he strolls through the door, all short brown hair and rectangular-framed glasses, Enjolras is eternally thankful that at least something hasn't changed.

He is even certain that he recognises the tie his best friend is wearing, though he would be worried to hear Combeferre had not got any new ties in the space of five years. Such items- ties, cufflinks, shirts- had always been Combeferre's favourite thing to buy, and he had been an avid believer in fine clothes and accessories. His extensive tie collection had taken up most of his bedroom, and the majority of Enjolras' time- before they went out anywhere, Combeferre would over-analyse the social situation and the suitability of each and every one of his ties, asking Enjolras for his help to shortlist the potentials and weigh up the pros and cons of every one before finally making a decision.

"Enjolras, _mon ami, _so it's true, then."

"Yes, I'm awake, if that's what you mean. Did Sylvie tell you?"

Combeferre shook his head, dragging up a chair to Enjolras' bedside. "Marius, actually. He asked me if I could let the others know, because a friend from work changed all the contacts in his phone to 'Napoleon' and he didn't know who everyone was, besides me, because I sent him a text earlier that day."

Enjolras let out a long-suffering sigh. "He's hopeless." The corners of Ferre's mouth curled up into a reluctant grin.

"He tried, Enjolras."

"One of his litter made me this," Enjolras added, handing the scarf to Combeferre. "Uneven, and itchy as hell. Thanks a lot, Pontmercy spawn-" Combeferre smiled affectionately instead of agreeing.

"Isabelle just learnt to knit, bless her. She's so excited about it. Made me this." He reached into his pocket and bought out a bobbly grey and navy striped beanie hat. "I think Cosette helped a little with this one, but you should have seen her face when I went round for dinner the other night wearing it."

"So you spend a lot of time with Cosette and Marius' brood? They were a bit much for me. Then again, I had only woken up from my five-year coma, like, that day."

Ferre grinned again. "I'm Isabelle's godfather," He said proudly. "They all call me 'Uncle Ferre', it's adorable. Ép's godmother to Isabelle and Ophélie, the baby- I think Cosette ran out of female friends."

Enjolras tried not to let his jealousy show. It was hard to hear Combeferre talk about Marius' children like this- in a way that let on just how much he had missed. He had missed the first time one of their friends produced living, breathing offspring. He had missed four Pontmercy christenings, and missed the chance to bond with, be a godfather to Cosette and Marius' children. God knows what else he had missed.

"Thank god, you're still with Éponine," Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought everyone would've broken up, everything I knew would be wrong-"

Ferre grimaced. "So you heard about Courf and Jehan."

"Yeah I heard! What the hell happened there?"

"It's a long story. It was a really, really messy break-up. Courf was working too much, Jehan was lazing around writing poetry and 'finding himself'. Courfeyrac had trust issues, and Jehan started hanging around with your sister all the time, then Jehan was _certain _Courf was knocking off his partner from work when in reality the guy was married with kids-"

"Jesus." Enjolras breathed.

"Yeah," Combeferre nodded in agreement, sitting down. "By the end of it, Courf was seriously, seriously fucked in the head, and Jehan was basically depressed. It's probably better that they broke up- although neither have been the same since."

"I can't believe it. I thought they'd last forever."

"A lot has changed, Enjolras." Combeferre replied quietly.

* * *

Marius Pontmercy checked his watch, ran a hand through his hair and began to weave his way hurriedly through the throng of people towards the exit from the Metro station. He kept his hand firmly clasped around his daughter's, occasionally glancing back to ensure she was okay with the speed at which they were currently hurtling through Paris.

He had just picked Isabelle up from her all-girls Preparatory school, and had been hoping to quickly visit Enjolras before having to rush to the nursery to pick up Jean and Henri. However, the train had been delayed and they had only just arrived at the hospital stop, with ten minutes before Nursery pick up time- and he couldn't call Cosette and ask her to do it, because he didn't know which Napoleon she was. Marius was a simple man, but he simply couldn't understand how his one day off a week- the day when the children were in his sole care- managed to be more stressful than four days of solid lawyer work.

Isabelle was currently in the process of rattling off everything she'd learnt that day, and as much as Marius wanted to be supportive, it was hard not to beg her to be quiet in the heat of the moment. When her hand almost slipped out of his own crossing the street, he gave in to the inevitable and hooked her up and over his shoulders, where she shrieked with delight and began patting his head while teaching him all about times tables.

"Hi, I'm here to visit my friend," Marius began, rushing up to the reception desk at the _Pitié-Salpêtrière_. "_Monsieur_ Enjolras is the name, except, I've forgotten what room it was- I've been here before, honest, I was just here the other day. I filled out the forms-"

"_Excusez-moi, Monsieur_\- do you not speak French?" The receptionist asked, frowning.

"_Oui!" _Marius replied, astounded. "Was I not?"

"No. I'm not quite sure what it was. I can't speak any other languages."

Marius sighed and hastily repeated himself, taking care this time to use his mother tongue. He had always had a natural flair for languages, and as well as French, was fluent in English, German and Russian.

"Do you have the forms with you, sir?" The receptionist asked in a monotonous tone.

"Yes, bear with me one moment please-" Marius delved his hands into the deep pockets of his dark pea coat. He was certain he had slipped those visitor forms in here- folded up for safe keeping…

After a few minutes of desperate searching, he made his best apologetic expression. "Actually, er, no. Sorry."

The receptionist was rapping her fingernails on the desk. She gave a tiresome sigh.

"The patient Enjolras is in room 308. Don't tell anyone about this, and if you come again, please bring the forms."

Marius shot her a winning smile and darted off to Enjolras' ward.

"Hey, man, so you heard about Courf- listen, I was going to tell you, honest, I just didn't want to freak you out so soon after you'd woken up-"

'Marius- Marius, hey! Calm down." Enjolras cut him off hastily, bracing himself as an excitable Isabelle pummelled into him. "I've spoken to Courf. I'm not mad that you didn't tell me. Seriously."

Marius visibly relaxed. "Really? Are you sure, because I feel bad for not saying even when I knew it would matter so much to you."

"Seriously, Pontmercy. Your apologetic behaviour is making me uncomfortable." Marius grinned, and laughed lightly as Isabelle clambered onto Enjolras' bed and started playing with his hair. Enjolras didn't push her away, instead wrapping an arm around her so she wouldn't fall back, and beginning to play with her long mousy waves in response. She laughed, and he smiled.

"I saw Combeferre yesterday," Enjolras began lightly, turning his attention back to Marius. "I gather you've been spending a lot of time together."

Marius shrugged. "Well, I guess ever since Ferre married Ép, we've kind of been doing the 'couples' thing-"

"Wait- they got married?" Enjolras cut in, grinning excitably. "Combeferre didn't say that! I need to speak to Éponine!"

"She feels really bad that she couldn't come by sooner, but she's been pretty busy. I think she told 'Sette that she's planning on coming by tomorrow, though."

"I feel so cut off, without a phone or laptop or anything." Enjolras sighed, and Marius nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine." He said. "I can't really use my phone right now, either, it's been a nightmare- I don't know if Combeferre told you about the-"

"-Napoleon thing, yeah, you idiot." Enjolras finished with a grin. "He was also telling me about all your kids and stuff. I feel bad, for missing out so much- christenings and things. I guess if I had been around, I could have been an 'Uncle Enjolras' just like he's 'Uncle Ferre'.

"Is Uncle Ferre here?" Isabelle piped up, whipping her head happily around to see if he was anywhere around.

"No, honey-" Marius said quickly, grabbing her off the bed and plonking her on the armchair. "Listen, Enjolras, you can still be that. You've always been an important friend to me, and obviously you're one of the most important people in Cosette's life. You guys were best friends before the rest of us even knew each other. Do you think we wouldn't think of you, even though you were out of action?"

Enjolras frowned. "What are you saying?"

"Enjolras," Marius said simply, grinning. "You're a godfather."

Enjolras' eyes widened, and he felt a strange warmth, and a nervous anticipation, flood through him. "I am?"

"Yeah!" Marius confirmed, nodding ecstatically. "Godfather to Jean, our eldest son. And we named you legal guardian, in the event that anything should happen to Cosette or me- I hope you don't mind."

'Mind? I- I can't believe you trust me like that," Enjolras stammered, unable to comprehend the love his friends must feel for him. They must have really missed him, the past five years. "What about Valjean?"

Marius suddenly turned grave. "Valjean died, only a couple of months after the wedding." He said sadly. "Jean's named for him. Cosette was really torn up for ages, it was a really worrying stage, because she was pregnant but suffering with post traumatic depression and It was really hard, so I don't think you should mention it."

"I'm so sorry, Marius." Enjolras said sincerely. "I just found out my Papa died, when I was out. I wish I could have been there for Sylvie."

Marius looked up at him. "So she told you, then. Listen, _ami- _we did everything we could for Sylvie during that time. I hope you know that."

"I don't doubt it a bit."

"Anyway, Enjolras, we've kind of got to dash, I'm about ten minutes late for the nursery pick up run." Marius rolled his eyes, and Enjolras grinned affectionately.

"Such a dad. Such fatherly responsibility, it's unlike you." He laughed. "Bring all the kids and 'Sette back sometime, if you can. Or I'll come and visit you- I'm hoping to be out soon. I want to meet them all and get to know them."

"That would be great." Marius replied honestly. He scooped Isabelle up and onto his shoulders, grabbing her ankles to support her.

"Oh, and Marius, one more thing. I just wanted to ask- how is everyone? Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet? Feuilly; Bahorel? What's going on?"

"Five years is a long story, Enjolras." Marius replied, and there was some kind of visible relief in his face when Enjolras stopped after Bahorel, as though he expected something else. "But, quick as I can for now- the three are still going strong, and they've got twins, and we don't ask who the father is, bless them. Joly works away quite a lot for _Médecins Sans Frontières_, so when we do see him, it's great. Feuilly, he's got a receding hairline, but last I heard he'd found a woman who he claims is the one. Bahorel opened up a bakery."

Enjolras laughed. "I can't wait to see everybody."

"They've waited long enough to see you," Marius called back from the doorway, and then he was gone.

* * *

_"__Monsieur _Enjolras?" The nurse's voice, clear and sweet, accompanied the gentle knock on the door.

"Come in, Adele," He called back, setting the newspaper aside on the table next to his bed.

When she entered, she was carrying a fresh jug of water, and simply beaming. She gave a little to the flowers, before placing the rest next to his bed, and arranging his pillows for him.

"I can do it myself, you know," He told her, smirking.

"Yes, but it's my job to do something." She laughed. "I am meant to be your nurse after all."

"You're incredibly happy," He remarked, grinning inquisitively at her. "May I ask why you look like you slept with a coat-hanger in your mouth?"

Adele laughed, and sat down on the chair next to the bed. She fiddled nervously with the wisps of her hair that fell into her eyes from her ponytail.

"I've got good news," She finally said. "I heard the doctors talking- I wasn't supposed to know, I don't think, let alone tell you. But they're thinking about sending you home tomorrow!"

"Are you kidding? Adele, that's- _merveilleux, magnifique! _Go home? At last- back to the real world? I-" He stopped short.

"I'm not sure I'm ready." He finished quietly.

Adele smiled sympathetically. "Your sister will help. No doubt they will tell her, you will stay with her for a while. She knows where your things are, I suppose- what she has done with your flat, and all your possessions. They'll call her in as soon as they know if they definitely will. I just thought- you might like to know. To have some time."

"Thankyou, Adele." He smiled sincerely. "Truly, thankyou."

She grinned sweetly at him and headed out of the room. "Oh, and one more thing!" He called, just before she shut the door. "I'll be sorry to go, just because it means I'll no longer be cared for by a girl as pretty as you."

She blushed to the roots of her hair.

Enjolras wondered why he teased her like this. He had never been attracted to women, that way. He was attracted to the beauty of them- such specimens of beauty, sculptures of god. The way women of Paris strode around so beautifully and purposefully, all long-legged strides, staggering heels and blonde chignons. The artful and delicate precision with which colour is applied to lips, the perfectly arching brow, the attention to detail. In Enjolras' opinion, women were nature's finest specimen- to be admired, but not touched. His feelings- of the _sexual _nature, he supposed- had never really lied with the fairer sex. Not that he would call them by such a name. He was all about equality, after all, and woman was anything but fair in his eyes- there was nothing less fair than the beauty and power of a woman.

**The real fun starts here! I think. I don't really know where this is going. Keep reading! **


	4. Real World

**Les Mis doesn't belong to me! Also, sorry this is quite a short/bad chapter, I've been super busy and my 'creative juices' weren't flowing- it was really hard to write! Anyway, hope you enjoy!**

Sylvie Enjolras tapped the biro against her teeth in thoughtful concentration, staring intently at the notepad in her other hand. "I think we've got everything- everything for now, at least."

"He's going to want a new laptop." Jehan stated the obvious, staring patronisingly down at Enjolras' old notebook. "The moment he sees what's in the shops these days? This will look like a piece of junk."

"Well, it will have to do for now. And I bought this brick of a phone from the place down the street, just for temporary purposes, so he can call and text people. We've got the bed?"

"All set up in the second bedroom," Jehan nodded in confirmation, and Sylvie adorned her list with a dramatic tick. "Made up in his favourite bedding- and the majority of his books are out of storage, at least, the ones I know he'll want."

"Excellent." Sylvie grinned. "Now, did you get the coffee beans? You know my brother won't drink instant."

"Two packs," Jehan replied instantly, in the manner of a soldier affirming his general. "And I checked the lease on the flat. It lasts two more months, so he should be able to move back in after that."

"There's no way to make it shorter?" Sylvie asked, frowning. "I love my brother, but I know he'll hate having to live with us, be all 'dependent' and stuff."

"Sorry, Sylvie. It's a contract." Jehan replied. "Still, by renting out the apartment, you've saved up a good amount of money for your brother, while he hasn't been working."

"Thank you so much, for everything," Sylvie burst out, dropping her clipboard onto the bed and throwing her arms around Jehan. "You're the best."

Jehan wrapped her up in response, tangling his fingers in the ends of her hair. He pulled back and looked into her eyes for a moment, before softly kissing her. "What time is it," She asked him, smiling against his lips. He checked his watch.

"Ten-thirty." He announced, eyebrows raised, and Sylvie squealed.

"Let's go and get my brother!"

* * *

Throwing the front door to their house open, Cosette plonked her shopping bags straight down in the hallway and moved back to let Grantaire in. At once, as though they could detect his presence, there came a clattering of footsteps on the stairs.

"Uncle R!" Henri squealed, projecting himself off the fourth step and violently into Grantaire's arms. The rest of the children followed a similar chorus, Jean pummelling his fists into R's chest, Isabelle wrapping herself around his legs like a possessive boa constrictor. Marius soon appeared from the kitchen, looking frazzled and clutching a recipe book.

"Hello, Marius, Minions," Grantaire greeted them cordially, grinning in Marius' direction as he peeled the latter's children off of himself.

"Hey, honey, how's the cake going?" Cosette asked her husband, heading towards the kitchen, as Marius attempted to subtly block her path.

"Erm- not so good, yeah, I don't think you should go in there- 'Sette!"

"What is it? What have you done," She demanded, eyes narrow.

"Seriously- it's not that bad, just let me clean it- I don't get why Bahorel couldn't make the cake, anyway."

"Bahorel's making everything else, we couldn't dump all the food on hi- MARIUS!"

Grantaire laughed as he followed the couple into their kitchen. It was Cosette's pride and joy- all state-of-the-art appliances, marble countertops, sleek built-in dishwashers and hobs. Currently, it looked like the scene of a mass bombing.

Flour had scattered itself over every available surface, and at least four mixing bowls containing cake batter in various stages of completion were littered haphazardly about the room. There was a small flood pooling underneath the kitchen sink, which had been left running and begun to overflow, and a pungent scent of burning filled the air. On top of the oven, a charred sponge cake sat forlornly.

"WHY THE HELL IS THERE A DEAD BIRD ON THE KITCHEN TABLE!" Cosette shrieked, her hand over her mouth.

"Erm- the cat brought it in," Marius replied feebly.

"We don't have a cat," Cosette said murderously.

"Fine- it was Henri. He found it in the garden, got all sentimental and wants to bury it."

"Put it outside or put it in the bin. That is absolutely disgusting. This is a health code violation, Jesus Christ, _mon dieu-" _

_"__Mama! _Don't put Pierre in the bin!" A little voice squealed, and Henri rocketed into the kitchen, grabbed the bird off the table and shot out of the patio doors into the back garden.

"Don't put those hands in your mouth!" Cosette cried after him, furiously anti-bacterial spraying every surface in a four-metre radius. "Okay, change of plan," She muttered angrily, once she was finished. "Since Marius is clearly incapable of looking after our children and our household, I'll stay here and clean up, and make the cake. Marius, you go over to Sylvie's with Grantaire and the decorations, and help set up for tonight."

"I'm not going," Grantaire said immediately.

"What are you saying? Of course you are," Cosette replied shortly. "Don't give me any of that 'wrong timing' bullshit. You need to talk to him, R. Don't tell me after all this time, you're still afraid of him."

"Um.. I'm still afraid of him?"

"You're worse than the children. Go on, go, set up for the party. You're going and that's final. Or I'll ground you." Grantaire grinned, and Marius set the cookbook down, looking relieved. Cosette's mood had improved, and he was off cake/childcare duty. It was looking like he would get away with this one. "Oh, and Marius, don't forget to pick up Feuilly on the way over!"

"I won't! Love you, darling," He kissed her quickly on the cheek, and Grantaire watched the display of affection between them with admiration. Despite Marius' general inadequacy, Cosette still thought he was the greatest human being to ever walk this Earth. That, Grantaire thought, was true love.

* * *

By the time they finally arrived at Sylvie's apartment (Feuilly had a situation with the banner he had lovingly hand-crafted and spent about an hour having an existential crisis, refusing to get in the car), it was late afternoon and Marius was freaking out.

"There's so much to do! Sylvie and Jehan said they can only keep him away until six thirty, and it's four now- Bahorel hasn't even arrived with the food, and god knows the situation on Ep, Combeferre and the alcohol they were meant to be bringing- thank god Chetta's been by to set up the music, that's all I can say."

"Marius, be calm," Grantaire mumbled softly, plonking the bags of 'welcome home' banners and balloons down on the floor, and sinking into an armchair. "We've got time. See if there's a six pack in the fridge?"

Feuilly whacked him upside the head. "Now is not the time for relaxation and casual drinking! I must arrange my banner. I'm worried the initial tear may have resurfaced in transit-" As he wandered off, muttering something about eleven hours of hard work, Grantaire fished around in the nearest bag and brought out a pack of brightly coloured balloons.

"Right, I'll blow these up, you bluetack all those tacky glittery banners Cosette insisted on getting all around the walls. Did she get anything red, white and blue? You know what Enjolras is like."

"Um- I think there's some bunting in here- and all the food is going to follow that colour scheme. Red, white and blue icing on the cake, tomato in the white bread sandwiches, those crisps that come in the blue packets- red and blue twizzlers, skittles with only the red and blue ones picked out, ice cream with blueberries and raspberries, white chocolate tiffin with cranberries-"

"Thankyou, Marius," Grantaire said sarcastically, "For your life story. Look at all the time you've wasted!"

Marius gave an effeminate shriek and started frantically warming blue tack between his fingers. Grantaire sighed and began to blow up balloons. If he wasn't allowed to drink alcohol, maybe he could achieve some oxygen-deficiency-induced high.

Four or so red, blue and white balloons later, the door burst open and Bahorel clattered in, arms laden with carrier bags and trays balanced precariously on top of eachother.

"Out of the way, out of the way!" He called, in his best diva voice. "I've got rapidly melting ice cream here- let me through, let me to the freezer-"

"Sorry about this," The young girl following him mumbled apologetically, a tin of something balanced on one arm as she reached back to shut the door behind her. "Preparations going well?"

"Swimmingly, my dear Louisa," Grantaire greeted her charmingly. "Looking beautiful as ever, I see."

"Lay off," Feuilly called warningly from the other room, before walking through and going to place a kiss on his girlfriend's cheek. "_Cheri, _has Bahorel been bothering you?"

"Not so much bothering as amusing," Louisa replied with a laugh. "He's been darting around the kitchen like a housewife on crack all day."

Marius gave a sudden hectic belly laugh at that, and almost fell off his stepladder.

"Don't let our dear Enjolras hear you say such things," Came the crooning voice of Éponine, letting herself in whilst carrying at least five boxes of beer. "Say, 'Housewife _or _househusband. Don't reinforce stereotypical social norms."

Combeferre, coming behind her laden with boxes of beer, wine and spirits, nodded in agreement.

'God, I've missed him." Said Feuilly, grinning like an idiot at Éponine's comment. "I can't wait for you to meet him." He added to Louisa.

"I'm starting to worry I may have a little competition in him," Louisa replied, eyebrows raised, and Feuilly winked suggestively.

Combeferre was doing a quick head count of the room, his head bobbing slightly with every person he counted. "We're almost all here, and it's nearly six. Everything's looking good- the speakers are in, we just need D.J Chetta to arrive."

"Bossuet probably fell down a drain on the way here," Marius remarked, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows at the irony of it. Marius, commenting on someone's luck- as if on cue, Marius leaned back to admire his handywork, and toppled off the stepladder and onto the floor with a thud.

"Don't tell Cosette about this," He warned them all with narrow eyes, once he had dusted himself off, and attempted to regain what little dignity remained.

Soon Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet arrived, Musichetta carrying a box of music, and Joly and Bossuet balancing identical toddlers on their hips. The twins delighted at the sight of the balloons, and were even more excited when Cosette and her brood arrived, bringing with her an impressive and beautifully decorated three-tier cake. She immediately began to help Bahorel arrange food on the dining table and kitchen island, while Musichetta got the music going, and Éponine lined up the alcohol on the bar and beers started cracking open. By the time six thirty had come and gone, everyone glancing at their watches, Grantaire was curled up in an armchair with a beer in his hand and Sylvie's cat on his lap. Lamarque had been just a kitten- his and Enjolras', a drunken idea they'd had that had ended up bringing them closer than they had ever been. When Enjolras had his accident, Grantaire found it too hard to have Lamarque around- stupid cat, with it's stupid name that Enjolras chose and the cat smell that reminded him of when it had lingered on Enjolras' clothes. So Sylvie had taken him, but now- with things so different, with Enjolras recovered- he didn't mind curling up with his old friend.

"So, R," Bossuet asked, from the sofa next to him. One of his daughters was sitting on his lap, drawing all over his face in makeup. "Is Adele coming?"

Grantaire winced. "I didn't think it would be a good idea, not yet. Neither did she. It would be too much of shock- for more than one obvious reason."

Bossuet nodded, looking as serious as a man can with curled eyelashes and fuchsia lipstick smeared over his cheeks. "Wise move."

Just then, the shrill ringing of the doorbell resounded out through the apartment. Everyone immediately silenced, and Enjolras' voice could be heard, clearly, distinctly, so close it pained him- "Why are you ringing the bell, it's _your house-"_

There was a loud click, as Sylvie turned the key in the lock.


	5. Housewarming

p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 22px;"Note: Sorry it's been ages! I suddenly got an urge to update this story again. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 22px;"_/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 22px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Cosette leapt up and squealed surprise, her children dutifully following her example. Marius winced and shrugged apologetically, and Enjolras barely had time to mutter 'Jesus emChrist-" /embefore Joly and Bossuet rugby-tackled him from either side and trapped him in a violent embrace. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Excited greetings followed; Musichetta kissed him on both cheeks and her identical daughters did the same; Bahorel hugged him until his feet left the ground, Feuilly wrapped his arms around him tightly and refused to let go. By the time he had hugged and kissed and cried into Éponine's hair, Enjolras was feeling rather tired of greetings, and his feet ached and his stomach grumbled from the day he'd spent walking around Paris with Jehan and Sylvie. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"He'd wanted to go straight back to the flat, but Sylvie insisted it wasn't ready yet, because they hadn't known to get all his stuff out of storage so hadn't set it up. They had walked down the Seine to the Louvre, and when asked where he wanted to go, Enjolras insisted on a visit to emPlace de la Bastille. /emThey had eaten in a small cafe he vaguely remembered visiting regularly before the accident, mostly with his sister, though it was no emMusain. /em/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"That had been hours ago. His stomach was protesting loudly at the lack of sustenance, so when he caught sight of the table of food, all red, white and blue in colour, that was when the tears started flowing out of his eyes. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""You guys, you didn't have to-" He muttered, overwhelmed with emotion. Banners, music, drink, food, the excitable hugs- his friends were so unbelievably ecstatic to have him back. There was no greater feeling than this- than being surrounded by friends and people who love you. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"He was loading up a plate with pasta when he noticed movement in Sylvie's kitchen. He peered around the half-open doorway, wondering if it was his cat. Sylvie would have taken care of Lamarque for him, surely? /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"He couldn't quite see fully, but through the crack in the door he caught sight of a person- tall, lean- a head of dark curls- head tipped back, a beer in hand- his heart stopped. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"The paper plate toppled out of his hands, upending a load of tomato sandwiches, baguette and a packet of cheese and onion crisps onto the floor. A grey cat slunk out of the kitchen and began to inspect the discarded food with interest, while Enjolras collapsed against the wall. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"****/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""Call the hospital," Sylvie's voice was saying, frantic and urgent. "Someone call the hospital- Joly, come back, he's moving and things again-"/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""Don't call the doctors," Enjolras groaned, blinking once, twice. "Don't make me go back. I only just got out." /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""You fainted, though." Jehan said seriously, sitting on one side of him. From the opposite side, Sylvie was patting a damp cloth against his head. The rest of his friends were gathered nervously in the vicinity, peering around each other, trying to get a look at him to see if he was okay. Caring. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""I"m fine, honestly." Enjolras protested, pushing Sylvie's well-meaning flannel out of his face. "I was just shocked, overwhelmed, that's all. A little tired. I promise, it wasn't some violent and serious repercussion of my former brain injuries-"/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""He's right, there's nothing wrong." Joly said, surprising them all. Usually, Joly would be the one determined that Enjolras would die within the week, after traipsing through internet symptom checker websites. Yet, he seemed the most calm and collected of them all. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""Thank you, Joly, my medicinal friend. Joly is a professional doctor, Sylvie, he says I'm okay, leave me alone." His sister pouted, but left him be anyway, muttering something about making decaf tea. All he really wanted was a triple-shot latte, but he was certain Sylvie wouldn't allow it- for fear of his nervous system going into breakdown mode or something. "Sylv, please, it was all shock, I just caught sight of-" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Somewhere amongst the crowd- past the inquisitive head of one of the Musichetta-Joly-Bossuet twins- he caught sight of the familiar black curly hair. He was grinning, his face not entirely visible, just a tanned and chiselled jawline, a slender brown neck. He turned to face Enjolras, expression suddenly anxious, and their eyes met. Green eyes widened, boring into his own. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;""-Grantaire."/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Conversations buzzed to a halt. Cosette was next to Grantaire, squeezing the man's arm in a way Enjolras could not decipher. Supportive? Pressurising? Grantaire whispered something into the blonde girl's ear, and she slapped him lightly on the arm, her face suddenly angry. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"His friends milled away, Bossuet suddenly busying himself playing with his daughters, Marius finding particular interest in a nearby home decor magazine. Grantaire was walking uncomfortably towards him, hand in the back of his hair like it always used to be when he was nervous or feeling awkward about a conversation. He sat slowly down in the armchair next to him, fiddling with his own fingers absently. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"br / "We need to talk." He said finally, voice grave. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"****/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Enjolras couldn't sleep that night. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"His sister's flat felt foreign, despite the familiarly-patterned duvet cover that he remembered from the days before his accident. The room was almost empty, devoid of all character or emotion; only a few of his books were there and the window looked out onto a dull back street with none of the familiar lights and sounds of his beloved city. He tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't get his mind away from the fact that in the room next door his sister was sleeping, sleeping next to emJehan, /emwho was probably holding her protectively, the way he should be holding Courfeyrac. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Courfeyrac. Even as his friends crowded around him, the room had still felt strangely empty that night without him there. Everything about the whole situation was wrong- he felt as though he'd last seen Courf two weeks or so ago, when he and Combeferre had come round for their weekly trio dinner. Grantaire called it their 'threesome time' and usually went to keep Ep company while their co-dependent significant others cured their separation anxiety with luxury foods and political talk. But that had been five years ago to Courf. He wondered if Ferre and Courf had met up for dinner even when Enjolras was in hospital. If they'd ever come to visit him together, sat next to him in the hospital, the three of them together- almost. Before Courf went away, that is. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Now Courfeyrac was in Australia and all Enjolras wanted to do was hug him and tell him he was sorry, sorry for leaving him all alone, sorry for not being there when it all went wrong with Jehan. When Courfeyrac's parents had died, almost ten years ago now, he'd made a promise that he'd always be there for his friend. And he'd broken it. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Then there was Grantaire. Grantaire, whom he'd forgotten about in hospital, the one the coma had temporarily erased. Then at the party, with the cat, and the curly black hair and the green eyes and suddenly it had all come flooding back. Then Grantaire had told him he had a girlfriend. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"emJacqueline. /emHe hadn't even known that Grantaire went both ways like that. R had always been the type to conveniently not share certain bits of information. emI couldn't wait for you forever. I needed to move on. /em/p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Five years. He couldn't have expected his boyfriend to wait for him that long. But for Enjolras, it felt like only yesterday he'd curled up in bed next to Grantaire, fell asleep as the other man stroked his hair and his back, and woke up the next morning to be greeted by a long kiss on the forehead and a a steaming cup of freshly-brewed coffee. Late morning; R, always the early riser, had probably been up for hours; Enjolras was only just awakening, the cogs of his mind whirring into action. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"He couldn't sleep, even his books couldn't help him sleep, and Sylvie had banned all technology the first night, insisting he needed his rest. Like he was going to get it at this rate. He almost found himself missing the familiarity of the hospital, the crisp white sheets, the irises in the window. /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Perhaps he should get a girlfriend. He could always try Adele from the hospital. If Grantaire could be into girls, surely he could, too? Surely anyone could? /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; min-height: 20px;" /p  
p style="margin: 0px; font-weight: normal; font-size: 14px; line-height: normal; font-family: 'Iowan Old Style'; -webkit-text-stroke-color: #000000; -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"Even in his tired, sleep-deprived, half-coma state, he could tell it was a bad idea. So he pictured Courf's face and finally fell asleep with his mind preoccupied on trying to trace out the freckles that adorned his friend's cheeks, just as the sun began to rise and a new day began. /p 


	6. House (ar)rest

It felt like he'd slept mere minutes when he was woken by the sound of the curtains being briskly drawn back, and sunlight flooded in. His sister stood silhouetted in the window, a long, slender figure in a pencil skirt and power jacket, a tray in her hands and her hair in an efficient and intimidating chignon.

"Coffee, freshly brewed, and a croissant from that place you like down the street. Jean Prouvaire's taken to going for long morning walks and he usually stops there to get breakfast, so you can expect stuff like this most mornings. I hope the coffee's alright- I know what you're like."

The coffee smelt and tasted wonderful, but it also smelt and tasted like the coffee he'd had before- the coffee Grantaire would make for him and their morning kisses would taste like it. He thanked his sister profusely, however, and dug in to the croissant with childish glee.

"I have to get to work, as does Jean, but you won't be alone for long. Combeferre has promised to come round and have lunch with you. Also, you can have your laptop, and phone, now- we put as many numbers as we could think of in there for you. You can watch T.V and read."

"What, I can't go out?" Enjolras stuck his bottom lip out like a child.

"No. You're on strict house rest."

"But we walked practically all day yesterday!" Enjolras protested, his inner revolutionary stirring within him. "That doesn't exactly comply with 'strict house rest'!"

Sylvie crossed her arms. "Well, that was for a breath of fresh air as we transferred you from the hospital to here. You can't just go straight from indoors to indoors again, you'd go crazy. But now you're here, and you're not leaving this house or doing anything physically exerting until at least next weekend."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Enjolras moaned, and his sister just shook her head before kissing him goodbye and swanning out of the room.

It was one of the longest mornings of Enjolras' life. He spent the majority of it reading news articles online, in a futile attempt to get up to date with global happenings. Before the accident he had been an expert on current affairs, politics, and social issues, but he now found himself completely clueless as to the majority of the articles in the newspaper. He didn't even know who the current French president was.

So he read some of his older books on the French revolution and the American war of independence- history was one of his passions, especially when it involved empowerment of the people- and at least that didn't change.

Around midmorning he got up to brew himself some more coffee. His sister's machine was an old one not unlike the one he used to have in his apartment, so he knew full well how to use it. He had to get a brand new milk out of the fridge and discovered it to be gone off, despite the fact that it was well in the labelled date, so he busied himself writing a strongly-worded complaint letter to the dairy company that produced the brand of milk. He was still working on it when a key sounded in the lock and Combeferre's voice resounded through the place.

"Enjolras?"

"In the kitchen!" Enjolras called out, taking a sip of black coffee. It was as bitter as his feelings towards the milk producer.

Combeferre couldn't help but laugh at the scene he walked in on. His lifelong friend, just days out of a five-year coma, was sat at the kitchen table with blonde curls sticking everywhere, wrapped in a bright red dressing gown, fingers slamming the keyboard in irritated frenzy and dark eyebrows knotted in fury.

"What's happened." He immediately asked, in a long-suffering manner, dumping a brown paper bag containing two stuffed half-baguettes on to the table.

"Dodgy milk." He gestured to the offending carton without looking away from his screen. "Did you bring food? Fantastic."

"Are you sure this level of emotion is good for you in your current state?" Combeferre asked curiously, digging the sandwiches out of the package. He handed Enjolras' sandwich to his friend, who took it in one hand and began to consume it rapidly, using the other hand to scroll through what he had written so far.

Combeferre picked up his own sandwich, unwrapped it and began to eat. "You know, Enjolras, I can eat in silence at my desk at work. I didn't come three metro stops from the office for this."

"Sorry, man, just let me finish-" Enjolras muttered, mouth full. He slammed his finger down on the return key with exaggerated satisfaction, and allowed the laptop made the pleasant little 'woosh' of outgoing mail before shutting the lid and turning to face his friend.

"So, Ferre. How's life?"

Combeferre rolled his eyes and took a bite of sandwich. "Life's work. How was your morning?"

"The absolute worst." Enjolras complained. He was beginning to hope there would often be friends around to rant to, as long as this house rest business was going on anyway. He needed to get a lot off of his chest throughout the day. "It's so boring and I tried to read news but I haven't got the foggiest idea what the hell is going on in the world right now."

"You'll soon catch up. The biggest news story right now is the Paris attacks. A month or so before you woke up there were some terrorist attacks in our city. Over a hundred died, including Joly's cousin."

"What?! He didn't say-"

"He didn't want to. No-one talks about it, Enjolras. But since then France has been engaging in air strikes against Syria, and now England and Germany are on board as well. We were part of a protest against the strikes, but they're still happening."

Enjolras clenched his fists. France, under attack. She was strong. But she was violent in response, and that wasn't right.

"The president?"

"François Hollande." Combeferre replied, without skipping a beat. "You'd like him. He's better than Sarkozy."

"Is that even hard?" Enjolras asked rhetorically, and Combeferre chuckled.

"How are you doing, anyway? Catching up with everyone?"

"Well, Jehan put some numbers in my phone, and I've been pinging texts to practically everyone in my boredom, which is probably a little annoying. Will you please put Courf's number in? Jehan, the bitter little bastard, has left him out. By the way, since when has _Gavroche _had a phone?"

Combeferre took the basic phone Jehan and Sylvie had provided for Enjolras and began to copy Courfeyrac's number on to it off of his own. "Gavroche is like, sixteen now, man."

"Shit."

"Yeah, he's driving Ep up the wall at the minute. He's living with us but Eponine wants to 'feng shui' our flat and he keeps ruining it-"

"What the ever-loving fuck is _feng shui?_" Enjolras practically spat out his coffee as he spoke. Combeferre gave a long-suffering sigh.

"It's some stupid eastern interior design thing that's meant to clear your mind and aura or something. Make you calm based on how your house is decorated. It's a load of bullshit, Jehan got her in to it."

"Of course he did, the trippy little fucker. Look at those curtains."

"Courf and he tie-dyed those a couple of months before they broke up." Combeferre replied, a little wistfully.

"Well, they certainly don't relax me."

"Are you ever relaxed?"

" Not now, 'ferre."

After Combeferre left, there was even _less _to do. Enjolras led on the sofa staring at the clock on the opposite wall, watching the seconds tick by. He found a small tennis ball which he started idly throwing above his head and catching it, rhythmically with every two seconds on the clock, but soon his exasperation got the better of him and out of anger at how boring his life now was, he flung the tennis ball as hard as he could away from him and accidentally broke a hand-made-looking pot. So that game ended.

_"__Enjy? Are you alright?" Courfeyrac mumbled through a mouth full of baguette, eyebrows raised in concern. _

_"__Why wouldn't I be?" Enjolras replied, not looking up from the table. _

_It had been one of those relaxed Sundays where leaving the house sounded like a terrible idea so they just didn't bother. Although Courf had moved out over a year ago now, he still practically lived at Enjolras and Combeferre's apartment, and by correlation this meant that Courf's new roommate Marius Pontmercy was spending a horrific amount of time there as well. _

_As the two most willing to actually put shoes on and brave the outside world (Marius may have been slightly bullied into it), 'ferre and Marius had gone out to restock everyday essentials such as coffee, milk, Courf's favourite cereal and wine. The two remaining were sitting in comfortable silence at the kitchen table, Courf humming to himself, Enjolras too caught up in his work to be bothered by it. _

_Despite it being a lazy Sunday, Enjolras was fully dressed in an ironed shirt (although it was partially unbuttoned and there was no tie). His jeans were slightly too short for his long legs, revealing lanky ankles and feet clad in the vibrant red-and-blue striped socks Joly had bought him last christmas. His hair was messy from the number of times he'd ran his hand through it in exasperation, and at least once every five minutes he'd glance at his watch, remove the glasses he only used when he couldn't be bothered to put contacts in, and groan loudly. _

_It was with another of these groans that Courf, indulging in the last of the baguette stuffed with some bacon, decided to question whether or not he was actually alright. _

_Courfeyrac was wearing an oversized old Tour de France t-shirt (he'd never done it) with a large pair of checkered boxers and bright socks. He was surrounded by uncapped felt-tipped pens, and was currently filling in the large letters on his sign with calculated care, tongue sticking just slightly out of his mouth. The sign, which consisted of a piece of bright-yellow card stuck to a piece of wood, read LES DROITS HUMAINS SONT MA FIERTE in bold letters in a variety of vibrant colours. _

_"__Human rights are my pride." Courfeyrac said proudly, holding the sign away from him so he could assess it's overall effect. "Ready to get your rally on, fellow rainbow child?" _

_"__Shh a minute, Courf." _

_"__Enj." His friend replied seriously, setting down his sign. "It's one p.m on a Sunday. You need to stop. working." _

_"__It's really important." Enjolras fought back, flicking through the paperwork in front of him again. He could feel his eyes crossing and trying to shut themselves. "I need coffee… where the hell are the others…" _

_"__Can't you just make some signs with me?"_

_"__The people need PERSUASION, Courfeyrac. They need strong speakers and figureheads like Martin Luther King. I'm going to write this fucking article and publish it in the goddamn College paper if it kills me." _

_Courfeyrac stood up so he could sympathetically pat his friend's shoulder. "Your dedication is beautiful, _mon ami, _but the deadline for submissions is midnight tonight. Don't overdo it." _

_"__I'm fucking finishing it no matter how long it takes," Enjolras replied, prompting Courf to wonder if his friend even listened to him at all. The blond began vigorously highlighting sections of the writing in front of him, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. _

_"__Fuck, Enj, not the tongue thing. Anything but the tongue thing-" Courf groaned. _

_There was the familiar sound of a key in the lock and Courfeyrac visibly relaxed at the prospect of having someone else around to help with the babysitting of overworked Enjolras. Combeferre appeared in the kitchen moments later, clutching a bag of groceries, followed by a rather dazed-looking Pontmercy. _

_"__Sorry we took so long," 'ferre announced, setting the bag down on the table. "Marius met a girl, and proceeded to follow her around until she noticed him." _

When Enjolras woke up he was still on the sofa, the handmade pot was still smashed, and he was still alone. Two hours had passed, however, and the beeping of the landline phone informed him that someone had left a voicemail.

In the end, there were two. The first was just Sylvie- wondering if everything was okay and checking that pasta carbonara was good for that evening. The second was from Eponine, inviting all of them to dinner at her and Combeferre's apartment that weekend.

When Sylvie finally arrived home, Enjolras was curled up on the sofa watching re-runs of terrible soap opera episodes his sister had recorded. She kissed him on the forehead and asked how he was.

"I miss Courfeyrac." Was all he could say, despite his sister's obvious discomfort and the multitudes of other answers he could have given.


End file.
